


Things You Said - John

by weeesi



Series: Things You Said [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Pining John, Sexual Content, True Love, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John figures it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. things you said at 1 am

**Author's Note:**

> A few months ago I wrote a Sherlock version of these and had to revisit some of them again for John. There are 21 scenes, all 221 words long, and set at various points in their relationship (nonlinear sequence -- could be read in any order). John's point of view, first person.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.
> 
> xx  
> w

“Strip.”

“Sorry, what?”

“You heard me. Jeans. Off. Now.”

My heart stutters strangely behind my ribs as an echo crashes its way into my stomach. You’ve got me pinned in your gaze again. The very cores of your pupils connect with the cores of mine, searing the depths of me, burrowing into those secret places you found long ago. I’m trapped in your orbit… erm.

Never mind. You always complain that I’m over-romantic.

You’re impossible. I’m impossible.

What’s somehow not impossible is that fact that we’re standing in the bathroom in 221B and Mary is long gone and Moriarty is long gone but this bathroom is still here and we’re still here and blood is seeping out of the gash in my thigh but less so now because you pressed your hot heavy palm against me, over the wound.

“John, we have to wrap up your leg.” Your fingers are pressing into the seam of my jeans and my stomach is on fire.

Oh yeah. Strip.

Rain starts to kiss the streets of London outside your bedroom window.

I’ve wanted to kiss you for years. Literally. _Years._

You undo the button and unzip my flies, tuck your shaking thumbs into the waistband and tug, pull, drag the copper-stained denim down my thighs as our knees bump together awkwardly.

I kiss you.


	2. things you said through your teeth

I don’t know why I’m obsessed with counting them. It’s ridiculous. It’s your business, not mine. Your case. We’re flatmates …alright, friends. What does it matter?

Except for some fucking reason, it matters.

Fifty-seven.

You’re not interested in talking about it, which is why I feel the compulsion talk about it.

My middle name is Hamish but it might as well be Self-Sabotage.

You’re sat on your bed with your back to me and I’m standing in the doorway, hovering awkwardly. I wish this wouldn’t matter. I wish I could shut my eyes at night and see soft feminine thighs instead of long clever fingers wrapped around my waist. I wish I could be happy for you.

I think.

“Sherlock, she text you again?” I clear my throat. “Since you came back to the flat?”

I left your sock index in pristine condition, I’ll have you know. I hope you’ve checked.

“Leave it, John.”

“I’m just—”

“I said stop asking.” Your jaw is set. “This doesn’t concern you.”

The door is closed in my face for the second time tonight.

Later, after I finish my third pour of whisky, I’ll wander back down the corridor, past the kitchen, past the loo, press my ear to your door. It’s an invasion, I know it is.

You’re quiet.

My room is cold.

 

 

 

 


	3. things you said too quietly

“Sholto’s gone to hospital?”

You surprise me, standing right outside the loo near the reception room. I nearly hit you with the door as I step outside, readjusting my braces and buttons before heading in for the first dance. My wife is somewhere, I’ve got to find her.

But you’re here.

“Yeah, Lestrade called it in and they picked him up 10 minutes ago.” Something shifts in your expression. “Thank god you solved it, Sherlock.” I clap a hand over your shoulder, slide it down your bicep. My chest begins to tighten as I know what words are coming. “He… he meant—means—a lot to me.” Whenever I struggle your eyes go sort of soft.

My hand is still on your arm.

“I see.”

You shift closer to me. Or do I imagine it?

You breathe in sharply through your nose, mouth pinched, but betraying hints of a smile. “Would have been terribly selfish for him to die at your wedding, John.”

“Right,” I wink.

The smile teases its way out from your lips, lingers for a moment, then quickly yields to something so… _sad_ , I almost can’t quite catch it before you turn away to peer into the room behind us. My hand falls empty into the space between us.

“I’m still alive,” you murmur.

I can’t see your mouth.

 

 


	4. things you said over the phone

“And the ones with the orange in the middle.”

“Jaffa cakes?”

“How would I know, John? Just get some.”

“Since when do you like Jaffa cakes?”

“Since always.”

A little girl and her mum push past me towards the rows upon rows of biscuits to snatch two rolls of Digestives. This is a Tesco Express, for god’s sake, not much bigger than our flat, and yet approximately seven thousand people are crammed in here, the annual shopping panic seeping in. Some packets of crisps, some tins of whatever – that was my Christmas dinner last year. But this year, I’ve got you. And we’re doing it proper.

“I’ve never seen you eat a Jaffa cake.” I set the basket down and reach to grab a box.

A loud sniff precedes your next statement. “The milk’s gone off.” You lower your voice conspiratorially. “Ah, there’s those lungs.”

“Oi, are you at home rummaging through the fridge? You could’ve come with to do the shopping, you know.”

“Can’t, John. Two broken thumbs, remember? No texting. No shopping.”

I say it before I realise. “It’s nice hearing your voice.”

“Yours isn’t so bad either—Mrs. Hudson, what did you do with those—” A few beeps and you’re gone.

I come home to you with milk, our Christmas dinner, and four boxes of Jaffa cakes.


	5. things you didn’t say at all

This starts on a Tuesday night when I make a stupid joke and you press me up against the door, box me in with your eyes and your hips, and breathe against my mouth until I lunge forward into you. We land in your bed and I lick the sweat from your spine as you reach back to slide a loose fist around me. Our clothes are long-forgotten things. 

We kiss and kiss and kiss.

I can’t look you in the eye without twisting in two; you shift and pull me over your legs, the fine hairs there brushing through mine the way my fingers card through your curls. I’ve made you a halo, spread you out on the pillow like a prize.

I almost feel like crying.

Instead, I flip you over, suck you in, your hands warm across my skin as I work my way down. My hands are shaking. Two fingers are enough to work you open, already wet from my lips, hot tight sweet heat pressing around me, enough to make both our mouths drop open, gaping, gasping.

One of us reaches for the other, rocking together, sweat slick and panting. I wrap one hand around your cock and you slowly fuck into my fist as I fuck you.

Later, you hold my head in your hands.

 


	6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

I’m on your right.

Our same sides in bed too. I’m right, you’re left. Even from that first night we never varied.

We’ve been quiet for a while now. A slight breeze threads through blades of grass and shimmers in the low glow of the sun, half-bleached out behind the summer trees to make way for pale starlight that will stretch out in long shadows across us. There’s no one else around at the moment, just you and me. We always liked that better in the beginning of all of this, although we didn’t realise it at the time.

I feel buoyant, nearly weightless.

It’s extraordinarily quiet.

Hm. Trying to remember what we said to each other before this silence. I think you said _See you later_ and I made some stupid joke that I’ve forgotten now. Seems ages ago.

We were holding hands, just before. And during. I remember that.

Spinning stars.

You said that just because you didn’t care about something didn’t mean you couldn’t appreciate it. We almost caught an assassin that night, all those years ago, when you admired the stars and I admired you.

The grass feels nice.

A swirl of wind blows softly through the oak tree above and then against us, giving you a voice again:

_Here Lies Sherlock Holmes_

_Consulting Detective_

_Beekeeper_

_Husband_

 


	7. things you said while we were driving

“This is ridiculous.”

“Au contraire, mon ami. This is exactly the opposite of ridiculous.”

“No one is going to believe that you’re my French boyfriend who just happens to be interested—oh, turn here. Turn here.” I rustle the map for effect as you make the left turn. “Interested in the exact same business scheme as the suspect. Even if it’s for a case.”

“As ever, John, solving crimes does occasionally dictate a little self-sacrifice on your part.” You shoot me a mischievous look. “Though I do apologise that pretending to have a French boyfriend is a burden for you.”

“It’s not.” My ears are red-hot. My stomach decides that maybe that prawn sandwich was not a good idea. “That’s not. It’s just. I don’t know a word of French.”

“And you don’t need to, John. Je parle français enough for the both of us. You do need to be convincing, so act like you’re in love with me."

Somehow is the air con in the hired car not working? I fiddle with the dials and buttons, even open the window. My shirt is stuck to my skin under my jacket.

You’re oblivious (I hope). You glance over at me again.

"Et par la manière, si vous le savez, je suis un peu en amour avec vous."

You look carefully away.

 


	8. things you said when you were crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied character death (not John or Sherlock).

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Sherlock, it’s not. He was your brother.”

“Who hated sentiment. He’d despise this, me slobbering all over like an idiot.”

I tuck my fingers through yours. “He loved you, and you loved him, and there’s nothing wrong in that.”

The white lily bouquet we brought looks diminished against the imposing black stone. Your parents are a few metres away, their flowers refreshed and vibrant. Much like they were in life, really. I smile to myself as I think of their many kindnesses. Seems that many people who have to face life without loving parents manage to find substitutes along the way, and they were that to me.

I squeeze your hand. “He endured to the end, love. It was just his time.”

“But I never said it.” The tears in your eyes highlight their translucence, shimmering pale steel. Your reading glasses hang round your neck, a well-learnt lesson. Strands of silver-gray dress your curls now.

“He knew. I’m sure he knew.” One of your solitary tears splashes onto my jacket sleeve and soaks into the fabric. “It’s hard to say things, but think of everything you went through together. He protected you. What you did for him too, especially there at the end. He knew you loved him, Sherlock.”

“I did. For all his faults, and mine, I did.”

 


	9. things you said that made me feel like shit

“You chose her.”

You know what I chose, Sherlock?

I chose to keep my Sig locked in Mike Stamford’s house for a year after that day. 

I chose to put the bottle back on the shelf after I saw the empty ones starting to line up on the kitchen lino.

I chose to pull my black jacket out of the bin.

I chose to turn off my phone and delete every message I got from your brother.

I chose to shove my face in the duvet on your bed and sob until my chest ached (only once).

I chose to take a shower after two days of sitting there staring at your violin case and your half-full mug of tea. 

I chose to move away.

I chose to go back to work at a new surgery.

I chose to say yes when she asked me for a date.

I chose to think about the rest of my life with her instead of you.

Because you were dead. As much as I loved you, you can’t plan a future with a ghost.

But know this, Sherlock, I chose you a long time ago.

And don’t think for one moment that this is the way things would’ve been had you walked back down those fucking stairs that day and told me the truth.

 

 

 

 


	10. things you said when you were drunk

We’re going to jail, I think.

I’m not really sure, actually. You were arse-up on some carpet in some bloke’s flat…? He was dead? And we were clueing? Or you, were. I was… looking. Your arse.

Yours. Sherlock bloody Holmes.

I want to fuck you. Like, _fuck_ fuck you.

Jesus christ. I thought that thought and you’re next to me and you’re good at knowing what my thoughts are and I think my face is burning.

“John John John John John.”

Your hand is on _my_ knee, this time.

We’re in a police car. I dunno who’s driving. You’re so close me to me that our thighs are stuck together on the seat. Your breath smells of bourbon and vomit. 

I want to stick my tongue in your mouth.

“John, you—not’a ghost.” Your words slur. “You know who—how—how I know you’re not a ghost?”

Hot hand. Hot thigh. Your eyes. What lit my face on fire. If I say anything, I’ll regret it. I bite the insides of my cheeks with my molars.

“I can feel you, John.” Our noses nearly brush. If your face was any closer to mine, we’d be kissing. 

I want to strip you naked and make you feel loved.

“John. I wanna fu—”

The sergeant pulls the car door open. We’re here.

 


	11. things you said when you thought i was asleep

My head is rolling, side to side. It’s been… 30 hours since I’ve slept. I don’t know when you last slept. We met up tonight, and we don’t live together anymore, and I don’t remember the last time things felt right between us, except for that I actually do and it was a long time ago.

Your heart monitor is beeping a steady rhythm into the backs of my eyeballs and I can’t stay awake, as much as I’d like to harangue the nurses for upping your morphine without talking to me first.

Just like the old days.

Blurred scenes flash in my head, repeat the last few minutes before you left me with Janine and went upstairs to play your part in your attempted murder. I knew Magnussen was dangerous. Whoever did this… nothing, _nothing_ in the world will stop me from…

I sleep, in and out of dreams, curled into an uncomfortable chair beside your bed. Mary’s gone back to the flat, so it’s just you and me.

“John. I’m sorry.”

You’re whispering, I think. I’m not quite awake enough to decide for sure if this is real. You sound tired, parched.

 _Wake up, John, get him some water_ , I try to stir myself into action. I can’t do it. Sleep is dragging me back under, holding me tight.


	12. things you said at the kitchen table

“Precisely.” 

You’ve been in your mind palace for the last hour and I’ve been eating cold takeaway leftovers, some Thai noodle thing we picked up two nights ago after you smacked your head on the pavement and I stitched you up for the thousandth time. We’re sat across from each other, your experiments strewn amongst torn out pages that look suspiciously like they came from one of my medical journals. Telly’s on, a humdrum soundtrack to this relatively calm evening. You’ve not spoken save for a few random words: shoelaces, northwest, camisole. Something about a dog.

“Well?” I test your lucidity, swallowing another forkful of noodles washed down with tea. “What do you mean, _precisely_? You’ve got the case sorted then?”

No response. Might as well be talking to a slide of bacteria. Why not have a bit of fun.

“I heard you last night, Sherlock.”

Suddenly your eyes lose their glaze and turn electric as they snap to mine, locking on their target with practiced speed. The momentum has shifted from inside to outside, your thoughts bubbling to your surface.

“I wasn’t – I wasn’t doing anything last night. I wasn’t even here.” The words tumble over each other as they spill out in a panic.

“Relax.” I laugh. “I know.”

Truth is, I _did_ hear you. And I joined in.


	13. things you said after you kissed me

The 1st time: Uh.

The 2nd time: John.

The 10th time: Go away, Mrs. Hudson.

The 50th time: Kiss me again.

The 100th time: For science, John.

The 101st time: Okay, maybe not for science, but just fucking kiss me.

The 102nd time: You like when I say fuck?

The 103rd time: Fuck.

The 104th time: _Fuck_.

The 105th time: Fuck me, John.

The 200th time: Don’t worry, I destroyed the cameras and the evidence. It was just a shot of your arse.

The 201st: Of course I’m not lying.

The 210th time: Which is precisely why Mycroft is going to be banned from our flat.

The 500th time: It’s going to be alright.

The 1000th time: Did you say Thai or Indian?

The 1001st time: Whatever I said I liked last time, the opposite of that.

The 1002nd time: You’re so good to me.

The 2000th time: What were you thinking?

The 3000th time: What was I thinking?

The 4000th time: I’m sorry.

The 5000th time: I forgive you.

The 6000th time: Are you sure? I never thought about—

The 6001st time: So we’re definitely doing _that_ again.

The 7000th time: I can’t promise it won’t hurt.

The 8000th time: I miss you.

The 9000th time: Tell me again.

The 10000th time: It was always you.

Just now: Always, John.

 


	14. things you said with too many miles between us

“It’s going well.” I brush my fingers through my hair. “Mary’s keen to entertain a bit, you know, show off the place. Might host drinks for the neighbours on Saturday, something like that.”

“Right.” 

“You’re welcome to come, of course.” 

“Can’t. I’ve got a case on.”

“A case? I thought—“

“It’s not important. Cold case. Decapitation. Just.” I hear you move something, the slide of metal against metal. There’s an edge to your voice, something just beneath the surface that I can’t tease out. “Just didn’t want to impose.”

“Sherlock, I’ve thought I said you should impose. I—” ( _should I say it?)_ _“_ —miss—”

“—the cases? No good there. Graham isn’t returning my texts so I’ve got nothing else on.”

A few beats of silence. I swallow. You blow out a long breath that crackles into my mobile, filling my ear with you.

I worry about you, Sherlock.

“Are you… dunno. Want to have dinner tonight?”

You seem to be waiting for something.

“Sherlock?”

“Sorry, John. Lestrade’s just, right, he’s just outside the flat now. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait.”

“Another time, I promise,” is all I get before you ring off.

I haven’t seen you in two weeks. I wish I could have told you that I miss you. I wonder if that would change things.


	15. things you said that i wish you hadn’t

“Why would I need you?”

“No reason at all.”

It’s easier to shut the door than continue to stand there like an idiot. You’ve made it clear, I get it. You’re not interested… in me, at least. That much is obvious. 

You’re quiet for a long time. I’m assuming you’re sleeping and I’m a crap doctor for not checking in on you but your room is dangerous and you’re dangerous and I don’t know if I’ll be able to go in there again without confessing everything and making it worse.

The thing is, I thought you did need me. Not for anything, you know, _significant_ , but for the little things maybe. Like reminding you to eat every once in a while, or bringing home the milk, or listening to your case theories at half four in the morning on a semi-frequent basis. Stitching you up at the flat instead of making you wade through the A&E masses. Doing the odd wash or two.

But I guess I was wrong about that. Or wrong about whether you care about it, at any rate.

I wander back down the corridor and reconsider the chipped paint on your door. Finally, I open it.

You’re drooling, splayed on your stomach. If you were on your back, I would’ve had to turn you, but.

You’re not.


	16. things you said when you were scared

“Where’s the fucking ambulance, Lestrade? I called—”

“You called two minutes ago, Sherlock. It’s going to take longer than two minutes. Just calm down and press on it.”

“Press on it.”

“Right there, look. Here’s my scarf. Careful you protect his head.” Pressure on my abdomen. The smell of cigarettes and wool. Warmth. Everything is warm.

“John. John, stay awake.”

You’re so blurry. Why aren’t my eyes working properly? What happened?

“Lestrade, he’s closing—John, keep your eyes open. _John_.”

Ah, there you are again. Except…

Sirens and wet warmth. You’ve got me, I know. I can let go, I just need to rest.

“John, don’t. For me, please, please don’t. Look at me. John.”

Are you whispering? What for, I’m right here, Sherlock. I’m right here beside you. I’ve not gone away. I’m right here.

“Please no. Please please no.” Wet on my face now. From you? I’m not sure. I don’t remember.

“John, eyes on me. Eyes on me. Lestrade I need another scarf—fuck.” Movement and then more pressure below my ribs.

“Sherlock, keep his head still. Watch his head.”

I’m so warm, and tired, and I just need a rest. Can’t I have that?

“John.” Your voice is coming from inside my head. “Not like this. Please, not yet. I lov—”

“Ambulance, Sherlock. It’s here.”

 


	17. things you said when we were the happiest we ever were

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, ‘course I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“You did this for me? All of it.”

“Yeah.” You’re beaming. “You like it?”

We’re in a conference room at the Yard. You’re to spend the rest of the afternoon thumbing through cold cases that I had Greg pull. Your pick, whatever you want. No strings attached (well, some strings, but we’ll talk about those once you try to snip them).

This morning I woke you up with a particularly sloppy blowjob, then brunch with Mrs. Hudson (including pancakes, your secret favourite), a trip to Barts for a look at a new batch of livers, and then here, to the Yard, for a bit of cold case cherrypicking.

Tonight I have reservations at Angelo’s. Bit traditional for us but it’s your birthday after all, and he spoils us with champagne whenever we have something to celebrate.

Which is often, these days.

We’ll end the night at home with something else… but I can’t think about that too much or I’ll blush and Lestrade will never let me hear the end of it.

He’s happy for us.

You’ve already got six files in your arms and a seventh propped open on a knee when I catch your eye. 

“I do, John, but not as much as I like you.”

You make my heart sing.


	18. things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear

“John, there’s something I—no. I need to ask you—. Ever since.” I hear you sigh.

I’m in my old room boxing books for charity and stirring up dust and memories. Downstairs you’re talking to yourself as ever. Easy to hear you through the old venting since you removed the barriers in the ducts. 

An experiment, you said. You were bored and we both knew it.

In any case, I don’t think you remember that I can hear you.

“John.” A pause. “You came to me on a January day and handed me your phone. Agh, no. Dull. This can’t be dull.”

What…can’t be dull.

“John, my life began the moment you walked into that lab and when you kissed me for the first time I knew it would continue. Too soppy.” Another groan. “Maybe I should just say will you marry me and be done with it.”

“Sherlock!” I trip on the stairs and plow headfirst into the wall with a solid _thunk_. You appear in seconds, curls askew in your haste. We stare at each other for a second before you bound up the steps in two leaps and drop to a knee.

Which is funny, really, because I’m sprawled on the floor.

A laugh bursts from our chests at the same time.

“Yes, Sherlock. The answer’s yes.”


	19. things you said when we were on top of the world

“This is not what I thought you meant by on top of the world.”

“What did you think I meant?”

“I dunno. Happy, elated. It’s an idiom.”

“I know it’s an idiom, John.”

“And?”

“And London is the most beautiful city in the world.”

You’re right. The view from the Shard is unmatchable. Streets sprawl out beneath us like twisted grape vines, feeding shiny baubles of distant buildings. The Thames looks markedly less disgusting in the peachy shades of summer sunset and I watch you watching the city melt into the shadows along its shores, only to birth an evening glow like embers in a dying fire.

Neither of us were born in London, but _we_ were born here, you and I, whatever _we_ are together, and we are still opening our eyes to each other.

“Fantastic,” I whisper to the window.

“I know.” Your fingertips press against the glass.

Later, at home, when I’m kissing the pulse on the insides of your elbows and you’re breathless beneath me, and when Lestrade texts and we throw on wrinkled trousers and suck in a swish of mouthwash and stay out all night running through alleyways, I’ll think about the reflection of the city in your eyes and have a hard time deciding what felt more like being on top of the world.

 

 


	20. things you said when it was over

I met you in January but now you’re leaving me in January.

I fucking hate fucking January.

The game is over, Sherlock. No matter what you try to say, it’s done. You’re going to god knows where, a horrible place far away where people will be horrible, and I won’t be there to protect you.

If I think about this too much… I can’t. 

Last time we were apart I thought you were dead.

Mycroft’s allowed me to visit before you go, not at 221B of course, but at some sterile holding cell tucked away in the bowels of a non-descript government building. It’s not wholly uncomfortable, but you’re pacing in front of me and I’m finding it difficult to catch my breath. Your eyes are burning, like you’re trying not to forget something but can’t manage to find it.

“When’s the flight?” My voice is low. Measured. Hopefully unemotional. I can’t look directly at you. It’s like looking into the sun.

“In the afternoon.” Suddenly you come to a standstill and turn to me. “Would you… could you come?”

“If you want me to.”

“I’d be--I think that would be better.” You rub your fingers through your curls, over the back of your neck. You look so tired. “I can’t quite… do this now.”

“That’s fine. Yeah. Tomorrow. Good.”

 


	21. things you said [when it was just beginning]

Mary is gone. The baby also.

I can’t think about all of that at once. Compartmentalising is something I’m regrettably good at, but those things still tug at a place that’s uncomfortably raw. Maybe one day it won’t be, but not yet. You know better than to prod. Instead, you hold me when I collapse in your arms, and make me endless cups of tea, and go with me to my therapy sessions, and wait for months and months and months until I can finally say anything about it at all.

You show me your scar when I ask you to.

You sit with me in silence, or play your violin, or conveniently disappear when I need some time to myself in private.

You comfort me after my nightmares and never forget me at crime scenes anymore (well, not nearly as often now).

You save me again, in so many ways. 

Now you’re across from me in your chair, reading a tattered copy of something or other, rubbing your lips with your fingers, and you look up just as the light from the windows caresses your silhouette. Suddenly it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time and I think, _this is what love is_. _He’s my love._

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“I’m sorry you had to wait.”

“Don’t be. You waited too.”


End file.
